Thea's Marquis (7 page)

He wondered whether the reality of the market would shock Thea. Her sheltered upbringing could have given her no notion of the vulgarity of the city’s common people. She might turn up her nose and demand to be taken home.

Or she might have changed her mind already, he thought as the carriage drew up in Russell Square. He’d not blame her. Only a hint of grey in the eastern sky suggested that dawn was on its way.

He stepped out and looked up at the façade. In one window a curtain was twitched aside momentarily, the fabric blue in a glow of lamplight.

Billy appeared at his elbow. “I went to the kitching door, guv, and knocked up the scullery maid; and sent ’er to wake miss’s abigail wiv your letter. Will I ring the bell now?”

“No, we’ll wait.”

After a brief interval the fanlight above the front door brightened. The door opened and a figure in a shabby blue cloak slipped out. The door closed.

For a disappointed moment. Rod thought Thea had sent her maid to say she would not go. Then he realized that the figure was Thea herself. He stepped forward.

“Miss Kilmore, where is your abigail?”

“She cannot come. At least, Penny has more need of her than I. It turns out she has a trick that eases the discomfort of...of—”

“Morning sickness? Did we not agree that you could speak freely to me?”

“Yes, sir, so I will say that whatever you and Mama may think, I am past the age to need a chaperon. Pray do not tell me we cannot go.”

“Very well, I shall not.” Laughing, he handed her into the carriage. He seated himself opposite, knocked to direct the coachman to drive on, then said seriously, “All the same, you really must not go about in public without a female companion, or at least one of your brother’s footmen.”

“By ‘in public’ you mean where I might be seen by the ton, do you not? I begin to think it unlikely that we shall ever enter polite circles.”

“Why is that?” he asked, dismayed.

“Jason says that Mama must introduce us to Society’s hostesses, but she is not acquainted with any. For myself, it does not matter, but my sister longs to make her come-out.” Thea took a deep breath, which Rod was coming to recognize as her way of steeling herself to accomplish some task she found alarming. “I don’t suppose you know any lady who might be willing to take Meg under her wing?”

“I will see what I can do,” he said, more curtly than he had intended. He was aware of a certain disillusionment. Like every other female. Miss Thea Kilmore was after what she could get from him, even if it was for her sister, not herself.

His tone made her wince. She seemed on the point of saying something, then decided against it.

The carriage rolled south. As the day advanced, the streets grew busier with coal carts, brewers’ drays, apprentices opening shop fronts, and maids chatting while they scrubbed doorsteps. In silence, Thea watched the activity through the carriage window, her sensitive mouth drooping.

Rod could not bear her quiet despondency. “I am sorry for snapping at you,” he said. “It was unfair when I had just told you to speak your mind frankly.”

She turned to him eagerly. “Oh no, it was my fault for trespassing on your kindness. Indeed, I would have apologized and withdrawn my request, but for Meg’s sake I was willing to brave your displeasure.”

“You are a devoted sister.”

“Until Jason brought Penny to Newkirk, Meg was my only friend,” she said simply. “I want to see her happily married, perhaps the more so because I shall not wed.”

“You are determined against marriage?”

“I am trying to be realistic. At twenty-five, I must be considered on the shelf even were I not too tall and too stupidly timid to attract a husband. Megan is pretty and lively, and her youthful charm may be expected to offset her lack of fortune. I believe she can make a respectable match—with the proper introductions and fashionable clothes.”

“I daresay she will,” he conceded.

He would have gone on to dispute her poor opinion of her own attractions, but she said anxiously, “Penny bought me a beautiful new pelisse, but I thought, considering where we are going, that I’d best wear my old cloak. I hope you are not offended that I did not dress in my best to go with you.”

Smiling, he shook his head. “My dear Miss Kilmore, I am not so easily offended. Your cloak is altogether suitable for the market. I wish I had had the same thought. I fear I shall stand out like a chaffinch among sparrows.”

“Not a chaffinch, a pheasant.” She clapped her hand to her mouth in dismay at where the licence granted her tongue had led her, but above her hand her eyes twinkled at him.

He laughed. “Come now, I am not so very much larger than my fellows, any more than you are. It is the constant contrast with your mother and sister that makes you over-conscious of your height.”

She gave him a look at once grateful and doubting. He had no time to reinforce his point, for the carriage came to a halt and Billy opened the door.

The noise of the market struck their ears. Cries of “’Taties, fine ’taties,” and “Buy my white cauliflower,” mingled with arguments over prices, a baby’s wail, and a general rumble of business and gossip.

Rod helped Thea down and settled her hand firmly on his arm. “Don’t stray,” he commanded, and she nodded, overwhelmed by the bustling turmoil.

The crowd parted instinctively before the tall aristocrat, and Thea and the marquis wandered between barrows, barrels, baskets, crates and cartloads of carrots and cabbages and celery. The pungency of homegrown leeks and onions mingled with the fragrance of oranges and lemons from Malta and Majorca. A display of broccoli took Thea’s interest.

“I wonder if that is the Roman or Neapolitan,” she whispered to Rod. “It does not look quite like either.”

“I haven’t the least notion! You must ask the stall holder.”

“Oh no, I could not speak to her.”

“She does appear to be something of a shrew.”

The woman was roundly abusing a man who had complained that half her stock was wilted. However, she answered Rod’s question civilly enough, with a positive flood of information about the cultivation of broccoli.

Thanking her, he turned to Thea. “Most of that was beyond me. Was it of any use to you?”

“Most helpful. At Newkirk I was never able to obtain the varieties I read about, but I shall try to find seed while I am here. You see, one can have a supply throughout the winter if one plants the right kinds at the right time.”

He listened to her earnest exposition, impressed with her knowledge and enthusiasm. Unladylike, perhaps, but of vastly more practical use than embroidery or playing upon the harp.

“How came you to your interest?” he asked.

She flushed. “I know it is not a suitable occupation for a lady. I started because our gardener died, and someone had to feed the family. At Newkirk we have only what we produce ourselves. I enjoyed growing things and wanted to learn more, so I ordered books on kitchen gardening from the lending library. The library at Carlisle is sadly limited and out of date, which is why I am still shockingly ignorant.”

“You seem to me to know a great deal.” Touched by pity for the hand-to-mouth existence led by the Kilmore ladies in Northumberland, he recalled with anger the carefree life of Jason Kilmore and his late father in London.

They moved on. Several times Thea stopped with questions, but she avoided directly addressing the market people, even a motherly-looking woman with a basket of mulberries. Rod guessed that she was simply shy with strangers, but the regrettable example of his mother was too clear in his mind. The Marchioness of Hazlewood considered a large proportion of the Polite World beneath her notice. Was it possible Thea felt likewise about the stall-holder?

Thea pointed out to him a barrow laden with five or six different sorts of apples. The ferret-faced man behind it noticed. With a broken-toothed grin, he polished a russet-hued apple on his grimy sleeve and held it out to her.

“Want a taste, ducky?”

She hesitated. Rod was about to intervene when he saw a small hand creep up from beneath the barrow and seize one of the largest apples.

The man pounced. “Gotcha.” He hauled out a ragged, shoeless urchin and yelled for a beadle.

The child, a boy of about ten, whimpered in his grasp. A few onlookers gathered, but the sight was too commonplace to attract much attention.

A stout constable pushed through the unheeding crowd.

“Don’ give me to ’im, guv,” the boy begged, tears streaking his dirty face. “I’ll do anyfing. I’ll work for nuffing. My sister’ll die if I—”

“Shut yer gob, you dirty little thief,” the barrow man snarled, shaking him. “I got a living to make. Here, orficer, here’s anuvver bloody Newgate bird for yer.”

Rod stepped forward. “Just a minute. What was that you said about your sister, lad?”

The boy clutched at his sleeve. “She’s sick, yer honour, and starving. Wivout me, she won’t last the day. She’s only little.”

“You don’t want to believe a word of it, sir,” said the constable pompously, licking his pencil. “Lie as easy as they breathe, they do. ’Anging’s too good for ’em.” He turned to the apple-seller. “I’ll take ’im off your ’ands now but you’ll ’ave to come round to the public office in Bow Street later to swear a warrant. Name?”        

“Wait,” Rod interrupted. “I doubt he’s an incorrigible villain and I’ve a mind to enquire further into this matter. I’ll stand surety for the boy. I am the Marquis of Hazlewood and you may find me in Arlington Street, St. James’s.”

“Yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord.” The constable wrote laboriously in his notebook. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Peter Barker. I don’ ’ave to go to gaol?”

“Long as you stays out o’ trouble, young fella-me-lad. If you goes pinching stuff again, you’ll be ’anged and ’is lordship ’ere’ll ’ave to pay. You mind what ’is lordship tells you.”

“Oy, what abaht me apple?” demanded the barrow man, unimpressed.

“I’ll pay you for the apple and I’ll take a dozen more.” Rod dropped a shilling into the man’s outstretched palm.

“‘Elp yerself, m’lord, and if yer wants my advice, keep yer ’and on that young bugger or ’e’ll scarper.”

Rod put a couple of apples in each pocket of his topcoat and, at his gesture, the wide-eyed boy stuffed the rest into his pockets and torn shirt-front.

“Can I give one to my sister?”

“If she really exists, you may give them all to her. Where is she?”

Peter pointed south, towards the river, and started eagerly in that direction. About to follow, Rod suddenly remembered Thea. He glanced around. She was standing a few feet behind him, a look of helpless distress on her face. She had every right to take him to task for deserting her.

“My apologies. Miss Kilmore. I shall have to take you back to the carriage and send you home without my escort, I fear.”

“Let me come with you,” she begged, to his surprise. “If the little girl is ill, you must not waste any time finding her.”

“Peter’s home is undoubtedly no fit place for a lady.”

“I shall be safe with you. But I do think we should buy some bread and milk if she is truly starving. Apples are not very digestible.”

He took her hand and pressed it. “A good thought. Come, then.”

As they turned towards Southampton Street, Rod made no attempt to restrain Peter. If the boy were lying, he would make his escape, continue thieving, and eventually be caught and suffer the penalty. If he were telling the truth, he had no reason to run off.

Peter stuck close to his side, now and then touching his sleeve as if to be sure he was really there. “Rosie’s all I got,” he confided. “Me mam died when she was born, then not too long ago Pa got bit by a prancer and ’is ’and swelled up somefing awful and ’e died. ’E were an ostler. I could’ve joined a flash ’ouse gang and been took care of, but they wouldn’t ’ave Rosie acos she’s too little to prig stuff or—” he glanced at Thea “—or anyfing.”

“So you tried thievery on your own account.” Rod kept the judgement from his voice. For abandoned children, the choices were all too few.

“Not till I ’ad to! I’ve swep’ crossings and ’eld ’orses, but sometimes you ’old a gentleman’s ’orses and then ’e don’t give you nuffing. I could’ve got by if it was just me, but I got Rosie to look after.”

His fierce loyalty to his little sister reminded Rod of Thea’s protectiveness towards Megan and Penny. He had sisters of his own, both older and younger, but they had never needed more than his occasional escort. His philanthropy had turned outwards.

Now, however, his thoughts turned to the inner man as the smell of new bread wafted to his nostrils. He had left home without breakfasting.

“There is a baker’s shop,” said Thea.

“Will you go in, Miss Kilmore?” He didn’t want to leave either her or the boy alone outside. “Buy what you think appropriate for the children, and add a little something for me.”

She flushed. “I did not bring any money, sir.”

“My dear girl, you must never go out without at least a shilling for a hackney,” he reproved her, digging in his pocket for change. The apples were in the way. He gave one to Peter, saying, “Eat,” and sank his teeth into another as Thea disappeared into the shop.

Nothing was left but two cores by the time she came out with a large loaf, three meat pasties, and a small tin can with a cover and a wire handle. “Milk,” she explained. “I had to buy the can, too, but I thought you would not mind.”

“I’ll carry it, miss,” Peter volunteered.

She passed it to him, along with one of the pasties, and gave another to Rod. “Would it be very unladylike in me to eat in the street?” she asked uncertainly.

Rod suppressed a sudden, unaccountable urge to hug her. “I would not encourage you to walk down Bond Street nibbling on a hot meat pie. Here, I simply advise you to take off your gloves first.”

Laughing, she complied.

As they swallowed the last bites of piecrust, Peter led them off the Strand into a warren of tenements separated by tiny, dingy courts. He turned into a crooked alley so narrow they had to walk in single file.

On either side blank brick walls rose to a few small windows on the first-floor level. Overhanging eaves high above admitted a mere streak of grey daylight to the airless, dankly cold ravine. Following Thea, Rod cursed himself for letting her come. It was the perfect place for a trap, with no room for him to use his advantages of strength and reach. At least he ought to have had the sense to wear old clothes, as she had, so as not to attract greedy eyes.